The Choice
by MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: Power was a cold bedfellow, but it was always there. It didn't walk away. It didn't make demands. It served, it yielded, it stayed. Exiling himself to New York City, a distraught Rumplestiltskin waits for news of Belle's awakening from the sleeping curse. But an unexpected visit from Emma, Regina, and Henry calls him back to Storybrooke.
_A/N: Since we have no idea when we'll get a successful True Love's Kiss, I've decided to write my own. This what-if fic is based on spoiler photos of Rumple in NYC with Regina, Emma, and Henry. *Contains spoilers for all of 5B.*_

Rumplestiltskin hurled another plate across the galley kitchen, watching it ricochet off the window and splinter on the weathered floorboards. The crunch of broken ceramic offered fleeting satisfaction and he heaved another, then another, until the cupboards were empty and his knuckles were raw and oozing blood.

For the past 72 hours, he'd been holed up in Baelfire's New York City apartment, now given into his care. With Hades defeated and his unborn child safe, Rumple was supposed to be gaining his bearings, moving on with life. Instead, he prowled in vicious circles around the small flat in a stained, ratty bathrobe, attire ill-suited to a dark lord, but ideal for torturing himself over could-have-beens.

As history's most powerful Dark One, he retained his powers even here in the Land Without Magic. A simple incantation could heal his lanced hands, but he refused. The sting of the cuts reminded him of his stubborn pride, and was all that kept him from rushing back to Storybrooke to beg Belle's forgiveness.

But what did he need to be sorry for? He had attempted True Love's Kiss back in the Underworld, and it hadn't worked. She didn't believe in their love anymore, and the failed kiss was as much her fault as it was his. Or so he told himself.

Rumplestiltskin dragged his slipper-clad feet through the pile of broken dishes, kicking the shards around the living area. The shattered pieces dug a trail of gouges in the wood like the scars that scored his broken heart.

Selfish masochist that he was, he both longed for and loathed the moment when Henry called with the news that Belle was awake. He could hear the boy now, crowing his exuberance that True Love between parent and child had won the day.

Maurice French. Bah. He didn't want that oaf awakening Belle.

What kind of a father sold his only daughter off in marriage to a person like Gaston, or tried to orphan her by erasing her memories, or thwarted her choices? French was a spineless fool who took advantage of his much stronger child's selfless nature. His love was conditional, based on Belle's actions and obedience. Be a hero. Love the right man. Save your kingdom.

Rumple had wounded Belle more times than he cared to count, but he would never impose his will upon her.

It was preposterous, this jealously of Moe French. In his own way, the man cared for Belle. But the idea that Belle's father could somehow accomplish what he could not made him seethe with envy. He wanted to be Belle's hero, but how? He wasn't dashing like Charming, or suave like Hook, or honorable like Robin Hood. He was plain, old, unremarkable, and infinitely forgettable Rumplestiltskin.

A moan of despair escaped his parched lips and he sank to the sofa, head in hands. Gods above, he detested this sniveling weakness, but he needed the safety that power afforded. Enemies and villains danced in the shadows, seeking their taste of revenge. He had no other means of defense. Power was a cold bedfellow, but it was always there. It didn't walk away. It didn't make demands. It served, it yielded, _it stayed_.

 _You'd never give up power for me, Rumple. You never have. You never will. I just wanted you. I wanted to be chosen._

Tipping his whiskey glass, he stared into it as if the amber liquid could unlock the answers to the damning questions racing through his brain. He gulped down the fiery drink, all his dreams of curling around Belle and a tiny baby girl with her mama's eyes crumbling to dust between his empty, clenched fists. Staying in Storybrooke would have been impossible. Even if they'd stayed together, the shame of looking at Belle day after day, year after year, knowing he'd failed his family was more than he could bear.

French had better succeed, or he would crush the bastard's skull in his bare hands.

Much as he loathed himself, he was angry with Belle, too. Not for her impetuousness, or for cruel words said in the heat of an argument, or for her hell-bent heroism. No, he was angry that she couldn't be satisfied. Angry that she wanted it all. She couldn't settle for some of him, most of him.

 _No, she had to have his fucking soul._

And yet against his will, she consumed his thoughts. Again he stared at his mobile phone screen. Ring, his mind cried. Beep. Do something. Anything. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, his bones crushing under the weight of fear as he waited for word. Henry had promised to contact him as soon as there was news. What the hell was taking so long? He tossed on the couch, begging sleep to come.

But the only sound was the ominous tick-tock of the clock on the far wall, a warning that the longer this sleeping curse charade continued, the greater the risk to Belle's and their baby's life.

From the couch, he flicked a fireball at the ever-moving hands, causing the clock to burst into flames. Flipping over once more, he yanked a blanket over his head, plunging himself into blackness and nodded off.

 _"I'll be whatever you want me to be," he promised. "Anything you like."_

 _Mouth curled in a grimace, Milah huffed, refusing to respond to his appeal or even meet his eyes._

 _Rumplestiltskin's heart sank. Gods, he was desperate to please, but it was an empty endeavor. He didn't spin quick enough, he played with Baelfire too often, and the shame of his slaughtered foot followed them throughout the countryside._

 _"Rumple!" A young woman attired in a golden gown scurried into the clearing, blue eyes alight with fire and fury. She wedged herself between him and Milah like an avenging goddess. "You don't have to be anyone but yourself. I have always known who you really are."_

 _"Who is this harlot?" Milah demanded, her gaze sharp and accusing over the young woman's head._

 _"I'm his wife." The girl tossed her head, chestnut curls bouncing, then tucked her arm through his in a possessive gesture._

 _"Excuse me?" Milah's response was shrill. "He's my husband."_

 _Milah staking a claim? This was unique. Rumple stepped back to watch the exchange with interest._

 _"Not anymore. You were a terrible wife to him," the young woman snapped, hands on her petite hips. "You left Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire behind to whore yourself with a band of pirates."_

 _Milah sputtered and lunged for the girl's neck, but Rumplestiltskin tugged her out of reach. Milah overbalanced, landing in a bed of rotting leaves._

 _He would have laughed at her murderous expression if he hadn't been so terrified by this odd slip of a girl._

 _Shoving her against a tree, he ground her spine into the rough bark. "What witchcraft is this?" he asked. His fingers bit into her shoulders, demanding a response to these outlandish claims, but she grabbed his face and pressed her mouth to his in a rough, passionate kiss._

 _Helpless against her tender onslaught, he opened his mouth, letting her devilish, questing tongue set him on fire. His traitorous body hardened, recalling her touch before his brain could catch up._

 _He tore his mouth away. "Belle? How did you get here?"_

 _"Don't be silly, Rumple." She smiled when he spoke her name, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. "I came to wake you up."_

Rumple jerked awake at the sound of the phone, nearly toppling off the couch. His body groaned in protest as he lurched to his feet, groping for the buzzing phone.

It wasn't Henry calling, but Regina. On she prattled about being here in the city, insistent on meeting at a coffee shop around the corner from his building. Rumple's heart pounded and his palms felt damp. Drops of sweat popped out on his clammy flesh, pooling on his neck.

A flick of his wrist had him clean, shaved, and clad in a fresh suit—infallible armor against a cruel world. He shrugged into his overcoat, fumbling with the buttons, and hustled down the empty street. It was Sunday morning, and the typically crowded sidewalks were void of commuters bustling to work.

Through the café window, he spotted Regina with Emma and Henry. They were huddled at a small table, hands wrapped around steaming ceramic mugs. Henry wiped his upper lip on his sleeve and Gold managed a grim smile. That boy never tired of hot chocolate.

All three stood when they saw him, a human wall of worry with Henry white-faced in the center, and his panic grew.

"To what do I owe the honor?" he asked, sauntering to their table. Rumple shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to control his trembling fingers. Condemnation would not be tolerated from these hypocrites and he had no need of their pity. His fears and feelings for Belle were none of their affair.

Henry swung his anxious gaze first to Emma and then to Regina.

"Not a social visit, then?" Breaking the awkward silence, Rumple gestured for them to resume their seats while he remained standing, clasping his hands behind his back to hide the tremors.

"Cut the noble act, Gold. It doesn't suit you," Regina snapped, but the compassion in her eyes belied the clipped words. "Belle is still under the sleeping curse. Her father's kiss didn't work."

All pretense disappeared as he staggered, dropping into a chair. Walls and floor melted together and he reeled, his lungs clawing for breath. "No." He shook his head. "Oh gods, no."

Belle and the baby were in danger and it was his fault.

"Mother Superior is working on a solution, but she hasn't had any success," Regina said. She blew on her coffee and pushed a cup of water in his direction.

Shaking violently, Gold seized the cold glass and sipped.

Emma leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes like chips of ice. "Is your power that important to you, Gold?"

"You know nothing. These were Belle's wishes, and I have kept my word." He stiffened, fixing the Savior with a nasty glare. "Listening to the people you claim to care for is a tactic you may want to consider in the future, Miss Swan."

Emma blanched and sank against the back of the chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Moms." Henry pointed to a table in the corner of the café, his voice quiet and authoritative. "Go sit over there. I want to talk to Grandpa alone."

"Henry!"

"Henry?"

"Please," the boy said. "No offense, but you're only making things worse."

To Rumple's surprise, both women obeyed without another protest, moving across the café. "We'll be over here," Regina said. She threw a final warning glance over her shoulder and he rolled his eyes in response. As if he were any threat to his grandson.

Henry shifted, pulling out the chair Emma had occupied and sat down again. "I'm sorry, Grandpa. I asked them to be nice."

Gold sighed heavily and reached out to ruffle the boy's dark crop of hair. Being caught between feuding adults could not be pleasant. "Son, I appreciate what you're trying to do. But I don't expect you or your mothers to understand. You're surrounded by family. People who love you."

Henry looked puzzled. "What about Belle? She loves you. She sees the best in you."

The lad's eyes filled with tears, and Gold averted his face to study the rings of moisture on the tabletop. Throat thick with his own confused emotions, he traced his finger through a bead of condensation. "For now. Eventually, though, she'll see I'm not the man she thinks I am."

"But you're her hero." The boy was sniffling now and tears fell openly down the honest planes of his cheekbones. "Please, come back with us to Storybrooke and fix what's broken."

"I'm no one's hero, lad." He grimaced. Estranged or not, he owed Belle and their child his help. "But if Belle needs me, of course I will come. One condition, though: I'm driving. I shudder to think what you people have done to my car in my absence."

* * *

The eight hour return drive to Storybrooke was tense and hushed, and Gold clutched the steering wheel like a life preserver. After two hours of enduring their bitter, mistrustful glares, he was relieved when Regina and Emma fell asleep in the backseat, drifting in and out of consciousness on each other's shoulders. They were still dozing as he pulled up to the salmon Victorian where Moe was watching over Belle.

"Grandpa," Henry said as he rolled into the driveway. "I believe in you, too."

Lips quivering, Gold managed a nod and tossed Henry the keys.

Moving with singular purpose, he walked through the unlocked front door and straight up the stairs to the master suite. Slipping inside, he shut the door, his eyes finding Belle on the bed the moment he crossed the threshold into the cold, barren room. Void of her warmth, empty of her laugh, missing her smile. His heart expanded in his chest, thumping violently as he approached the bed. Delicate as spun glass she was, ethereal and infinitely precious, but still a pale imitation of his vivacious Belle.

"Gold." Maurice French was slumped in a chair at the foot of the bed, looking disheveled in a wrinkled white polo shirt blotted with coffee stains. His face was careworn.

"Has she been peaceful?" Gold asked without preamble, his eyes never leaving his wife's face.

"At moments," Moe said. "But she has fits and starts. Sometimes she sobs and cries out like she's in pain." The older man mopped his greasy brow with a soiled handkerchief. "She…calls for you."

The blood in his veins bubbled like molten lava, and he wrenched his gaze away from Belle to round on Moe. "Why haven't you woken her, then? What are you waiting for, damn it?"

"I don't think I can wake her," the older man admitted.

French seemed unconcerned about this deficiency, and Rumplestiltskin wanted to throttle him.

"You've not even tried?" He advanced on his father-in-law, curling his hands into claws. His tone turned low, dangerous. "I was told your kiss had failed."

"That's what I said, yes." Moe's stare was defiant.

French had lied to Emma and Regina? Rumplestiltskin could barely process this news. "What are you playing at, old man?"

"It's not a game, Gold. This is _your_ wife and _your_ child. I said what was necessary to bring you home." Moe spread his hands, his eyes turning beseeching in his bloated face. "Belle needs you."

Shifting the blame wasn't solving the problem. Yet he persisted, needing to be right. "You're her father; she asked for you."

French snorted. "She's not mine anymore. I surrendered that privilege on your wedding day when I gave her away. To you. And I lost her allegiance long before that—the first time you laid eyes on each other. She jumped at the chance to leave her family and friends for you. I was there…I heard you. _Forever,_ you promised. As did she."

"It was a deal," Gold barked. "And forever is an empty word. She doesn't want me anymore. Doesn't believe I can save her." Admitting his pain aloud made his stomach pitch.

French gave a graceless chuckle. "Is that what you think?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." He threw up his hands and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. "How could you allow her to suffer for three days?"

"I could ask you the same question," French said on a sigh. "Very well. If it's what you wish, I'll kiss her right now. And she'll wake up. My love for her is flawed, but it's true. I don't think that's what you want, though. Is it?" French eyed him shrewdly, and Rumple withered.

The old man was making too much sense and he fucking hated it. He chanced a glance out the window, reassuring himself that he hadn't accidentally driven through a portal back to the Underworld.

No, he didn't want French to wake Belle up. If he was able, he wanted to be the one to save her. Trouble was, he didn't know how. Not without surrendering the one thing that could keep them safe.

Maurice rose from his chair and waddled over, placing a tentative hand on his shaking shoulder. "I don't give advice, Gold. But know this: if you and Belle can't give yourselves to each other completely, this situation, this moment—it will always be a shadow between you."

Gold bit the inside of his cheek to keep quiet.

"Of course she wouldn't ask you to choose her over your power—not again. She loves you too much to make you resent her. It needs to be your choice," French said.

For the first time in their association, Belle's father was speaking with strength and certainty, and Rumple found himself viewing the other man with fledgling respect. Rather than wanting to drive Belle away from him, it seemed he wanted their marriage to be a success. If French believed he wasn't all bad, maybe he could stand up against his own doubts. Perhaps he was capable of more than darkness. Belle's father slid out into the hallway and closed the door with a low thud.

Here they were, two cursed people in love, one asleep—yet the room screamed with a deafening tension.

Was he making the wrong choices? Or was he making the right choices in the wrong way? For most of his life he'd fled from troubles, seeking out shortcuts and loopholes instead of plowing through difficulties head-on.

 _I won't let the power go, Belle. Not again._

 _Right. Not even for me._

Maybe he couldn't be both man and beast. Perhaps he couldn't keep both love and power.

Power was his weakness, but Belle was his strength, his love, the essence of his life. All the power in the realms meant nothing without her in his life. But as long as held himself apart from her, they would never truly belong to each other.

He knelt on the floor beside the bed, and enclosed her small, chilled hand in both of his. Rubbing her palm, he slid his fingers to her wrist, soothed by the resolute throb of her pulse. For the first time since he'd entered the room, he spoke to her. "Belle, I'm here, sweetheart."

Had her heartbeat jumped in response to the timbre of his voice?

Dark, gossamer eyelashes and burgundy lips stood out in contrast against her alabaster skin. Reverently, he slipped his hands under her hair, grazing her cool, soft neck with his fingertips. His thumbs found and stroked the hollows of the ivory column of her throat, awakening her delicate scent of lavender and vanilla.

Hesitant, he leaned in, tension playing a low note along his spine. With aching tenderness, he touched his mouth to Belle's soft, dry lips. And waited. He rocked back on his heels, uncertain of what to expect. A thunderclap? Perhaps a lightning bolt?

Her eyelashes fluttered once, then stillness.

"Belle." Her name was a sob, a prayer. "My love, please."

Guilt pinched his gut—the trouble was the same as it had been in the Underworld. Paralyzed by fear of the unknown, he was holding himself in check. Total abandon was required. He must surrender himself as an offering, a gift of light rather than darkness.

It was the hardest decision he'd ever made in over three hundred years of living.

Long ago, he had failed Baelfire by dropping him into a gaping chasm in the ground. His boy was gone forever, but today had a second chance to make the right choice. Failure was always possible, but it would not be because he didn't give his all.

By gods, he would give Belle and their child everything.

Reaching inside his suit jacket, he removed the dagger, the source of his power, and laid it across Belle's abdomen. Belle and their child were his altar and this was the ultimate sacrifice.

Thousands of times he'd kissed these satin lips—kisses that tasted of joy, fear, even desperation—but this was a kiss of renewal. Again he fitted his mouth to hers—lip to lip, heart to heart, a fusion of souls as he drank in her sweetness. And as he took he gave, pouring all his power, love, and passion—everything he'd been, was, and would ever be—into this sacred moment.

Belle's lashes fluttered again but her gaze remained shuttered. His wounded heart teetered on the precipice and he howled in agony—he'd given everything, but he still wasn't enough.

A spark of golden light flooded the room. Then Belle inhaled, a deep, gasping breath, and he looked into sapphire eyes that sparkled with tears.

"Hey," she said, blinking up at him.

"Hey," he said, panting in disbelief.

"My prince," she whispered, caressing his neck and threading her fingers through his hair. "I knew it was you."

"You did?" Sagging with relief, he dropped his head and sobbed against her neck, unashamed of the wetness that leaked from his eyes and soaked into her hair.

Rather than weak and empty of the power that hummed through his veins as the Dark One, he felt stronger than ever. "Nothing happened," he said, awestruck. "We shared True Love's Kiss and I'm still the Dark One?"

"Something happened," Belle replied, lifting the dagger off her body. "Rumple, look." The formerly silver blade etched with black engravings still bore his name, but the cold steel had transformed into warm, pure gold, richer and finer than any he had ever seen or spun.

Numb with shock he stared at the blade. "Does this mean…light magic?"

Lips parted, she nodded. "You _are_ the one of legend that Merlin spoke of. The man who can wield the Dark One dagger for good. Rumple, I never wanted you to give up your power—only for you to choose _us_. You've chosen love, decided to use the power for good, and the Fates have rewarded you." Belle drew him close, coaxing him onto the bed, and he nestled his head against her breast, exhausted yet invincible.

"Belle, I love you." He lifted his head to smother her face with kisses and she laughed, a joyous, bubbling sound that he echoed in his own rapture.

"Don't ever leave us again," she said, her eyes darkening with sorrow as she caressed her stomach.

"How did you know I was gone?" He thought of his three-day tantrum in New York and his face burned with shame. Had he honestly thought he could leave them for good?

Belle wrapped her arms around his shoulders, anchoring him. "I heard every word you said to me while I was under the sleeping curse," she said. "You told me about forcing Hades to tear up the contract and the way you dealt with your father. You asked me to love and accept you for who you are. And then you told me you were going away."

"I didn't believe I could save you. And after what you said in the Underworld, I didn't think you believed in me anymore, either," he confessed.

Her face reflected anguish and regret. "I was afraid for you and the baby. More than that, I discovered who I really was, the lengths I was willing to go to to keep you safe. It scared me. But I never lost faith in you. I didn't want to make you choose. You were right about me—I do love the man and the beast. Always have. But I made you doubt yourself and my love. For that I am truly sorry."

"I love you as you are as well, sweetheart." He feathered kisses against her nose, eliciting a giggle. "Impetuous, brave, wondrous, maddening Belle."

"Rumple, will you promise me something?" she asked.

"No," he said, chest lurching. He may be able to turn darkness into light, but he'd swear no more oaths he didn't intend to keep.

"You haven't even heard what it is yet." She drew the words out teasingly.

"What is it?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself.

"Promise me you'll never change." She caressed his cheek and he leaned closer, safe and whole in her touch; content to drown in eyes filled with a love so unfathomable it stole his breath.

"Now that I can do." Overjoyed, he beamed at her and pressed his open palms to the slight swell of her belly. "That I can do."

###

 _I really tried to do justice to this important moment in Rumbelle's relationship. And I do believe we will get the True Love's Kiss we have waited for! But until then, I hope you enjoy this version of events._


End file.
